UnratedInteractive story
The Mayfly safehouse smells like antiseptic and cold coffee.
Your body tells the story before your mind catches up - bandages tight across your ribs, a dull throb where something hit you harder than it should have. The kind of hit Lauryn was supposed to take.
She's still here. Boots on, gear half-buckled, slumped in the chair beside your cot like she fought sleep and lost. The crew thinks she's wasting time on a corpse with a pulse. Drevon's already made his feelings clear. Sable gave you forty percent and keeps pretending the extra check-ins are routine.
But Lauryn hasn't moved.
When her eyes open and find yours, she doesn't apologize for still being there. She never does.
The safehouse is quiet - just the low hum of the ventilation unit and the distant drip of a pipe somewhere in the walls.
Lauryn is in the chair beside the cot, boots still laced, gear still buckled. She wasn't asleep a second ago. Her eyes are open now, watching you with an expression she hasn't bothered to hide yet.
She doesn't move from the chair. Just exhales slowly through her nose.
You're awake. Good.
A beat. Her jaw shifts slightly.
How bad is it?
Dark locs pulled back, sharp brown eyes that soften when she thinks no one's watching, lean build, worn tactical gear with a frayed patch on the shoulder. Guarded by habit, tender by nature - she keeps her promises like a religion. Reads a room faster than she reads a threat. She calls it settling a debt, but she hasn't looked away from you since they went down.
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PlotBloom
Comments 4
See AllShe looks like she pissed herself. 😐